Chapter 44

Rudy must have been on the phone for 10 minutes, getting angrier all the time. It was a pure argument I was hearing one side of, and not understanding the side I heard either. Finally he jerked the phone away from his ear, slapped it closed, put it on his belt, and stalked off, south down Edith. I shrugged my shoulders and turned around to look over at the Blazer, where it appeared that they were about done dusting and vacuuming and all the other technical things that go into crime scene work. I knew, and they knew, that they didn't need evidence from my vehicle, but we also knew that if they didn't collect it, some defense lawyer would eventually find a way to make it look like poor police work had prevented his client from getting a fair trial. We live in a world where 58 people can witness a murderer, and if the cops don't fingerprint the three-year-old son of the dogcatcher who lives 40 miles away, the judge'll declare a mistrial.

It was getting toward afternoon now, and I was hungry, but I couldn't get at the Blazer, much less my lunch. Of course the cops weren't eating either, though most of the patrol cars had left and no doubt their drivers were finding lunch somewhere, if they hadn't already.

I straightened up from the cruiser I was leaning against and stretched my back. The deputies had given my identification back long before, and I'd stuck it in my shirt pocket. I took it out now – driver's license, PI license, concealed carry permit – and stuck it all back in my wallet. I hadn't bothered pulling out the PI badge I keep in my right back pocket; the only reason I've got that is to impress those who find badges impressive and don't bother to read one. For that matter, New Mexico law makes it illegal for PIs to flash a badge – probably in an effort to prevent PIs from impersonating cops.

I strolled around a little, in the small space beside the cruiser. It was a chilly day, like all of January had been, but it was a clear day, so the sun was shining, and the wind wasn't blowing. That made it actually tolerable in my jacket, though I wouldn't have wanted to try taking the jacket off.

I turned around and there, coming up Edith, was Rudy ... and Cecelia. She was all in black, as far as I could tell – all I could see was her black leather trench coat buttoned over black jeans and black cowboy boots. Her hair was pulled back in its usual short ponytail at the base of her skull, and she had her hands jammed into the pockets of her trench coat. From the expression on her face I suspected those hands were fists.

Rudy looked as angry as I've ever seen him – and a little bit cowed too, which I'd never seen before. I knew suddenly who he'd been arguing with on the phone. Cecelia speaks fluent Spanish, including the big words she loves, and if anyone could out-argue Rudy in his native language, she'd be the one. She came right up to me, looking me over. "I see no blood," she said, "so your evaluation was correct."

I looked at Rudy. "What is she doing here?"

"You argue with her, Darvin," he said, his Chicano accent stronger than usual. "I can' get nowhere." And he stalked off. I'd never seen him rude before, and I knew something of just how angry he was.

"I am not an inanimate object, Darvin," Cecelia said. "I will not have you and your friend talking past me as though I am."

"This is a crime scene," I told her, "an' you ain't got no business here."

"This is where my husband was in peril of his life. I have significant business here, and you will receive me as your wife or I will assuredly make you wish you had."

I was going to say something mean, but the detective in charge of things cut me off. "Excuse me, ma'am, who are you?"

"I am this man's wife. Who are you?"

Even as irritated as I was, I couldn't help the amusement as I saw her tone hit him between the eyes. It was the voice of an empress, a woman who all her life had received instant obedience from serfs and courtiers. She wasn't that woman, but she sure did sound like it.

"I'm Lieutenant Urban. And who are you?" He might be facing the most arrogant woman he'd ever met, but he wasn't afraid of her.

"As I said, I'm Mrs. Carpenter. When can I take my husband home?"

"You can't. We'll release him when we're done here."

"Nonsense. Surely you are aware by now that my husband fired only in self-defense. What are you doing to capture the perpetrator?" She's learned something from being married to me, even if it's only some of the jargon.

"That, Mrs. Carpenter, is none of your business. This crime scene is none of your business. Now you're going to have to—"

"The only things I have to do, Lieutenant, are stay black and pay taxes." I had to stifle a snort of laughter at that one. "I am here to see to my husband's well-being, and it's a good thing too, since none of you people seem inclined to do so."

The detective turned to me. "Get your wife out of here," he snarled, and started to walk away.

"No." Cecelia's voice sounded like iron. "My husband will not, and cannot, make me leave this place. I will only leave when he is free to go."

I spoke up. "Cecelia, go home. You don't belong here. He's right."

"Be silent, Darvin." She's given me orders before, but that was the first one she'd ever given me that made me feel like a hireling. "Go about your work," she said to Lieutenant Urban. "I will not interfere, and I will not leave this patch of ground, but neither will I depart until my husband walks with me."

"You're responsible for her," Urban said to me, and walked off without another word.

I turned to Cecelia. "What in the—" I had to stop before I said a word I haven't said in years. "What do you think you're doing?" I demanded in a growl.

"I am caring for my husband."

"Yeah, I saw that. 'Be silent, ' you said, like I was your serf. That's real caring, Cecelia."